‘I’m sorry I was so silly.’
‘Forget it!’
‘You know the champagne bottles? Well, there are only
three
of them in the crate. They must have taken one away with them – it’s not here.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t quite finish it.’
‘It’s not very easy to carry a half-full bottle of bubbly around.’
‘No. You can’t get the cork back in, can you?’
She smiled, feeling very much happier now, and found herself looking at Morse and wondering if he had a wife or a series of women-friends or whether he just wasn’t interested: it was
difficult to tell. She was conscious, too, that his mind hadn’t seemed to be on her at all for the last few minutes. And indeed this was true.
‘You feeling better?’ she heard him say; but he appeared no longer to have any interest in her well-being, and he said no more as she turned and left him in the bedroom.
A few minutes later he poked his head round the door of Annexe 1 and found Lewis on his hands and knees beside the dressing table.
‘Found anything?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir.’
Back in the temporary Operations Room, Morse rang the pathology lab and found the police surgeon there.
‘Could it have been a bottle, Max?’
‘Perhaps,’ admitted that morose man. ‘But if it was it didn’t break.’
‘You mean even you would have found a few lumps of glass sticking in the fellow’s face?’
‘Even me!’
‘Do you think with a blow like that a bottle
would
have smashed?’
‘
If
it was a bottle, you mean?’
‘Yes,
if
it was a bottle.’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Well, bloody guess, then!’
‘Depends on the bottle.’
‘A champagne bottle?’
‘Many a day since I saw one, Morse!’
‘Do you think whoever murdered Ballard was left-handed or right-handed?’
‘If he was a right-handed tennis player it must have been a sort of backhand shot: if he was left-handed, it must have been a sort of smash.’
‘You’re not very often as forthcoming as that!’
‘I try to help.’
‘Do you think our tennis player was right-handed or left-handed?’
‘Don’t know,’ said the surgeon.
Lewis came in a quarter of an hour later to report to his rather sour-looking superior that his exhaustive search of the Palmer suite had yielded absolutely nothing.
‘Never mind, Lewis! Let’s try the Palmer number again.’
But Morse could hear the repeated ‘Brr-brrs’ from where he sat, and sensed somehow that for the moment at least there would be no answer to the call. ‘We’re not having a
great afternoon, one way or another, are we?’ he said.
‘Plenty of time yet, sir.’
‘What about old Doris? Shall we give her a ring? We know
she’s
at home – warming her corns on the radiator, like as not.’
‘You want me to try?’
‘Yes, I do!’
But there was no Arkwright of any initial listed in the Kidderminster area at 114 Worcester Road. But there
was
a subscriber at that address; and after some reassurance from Lewis about
the nature of the inquiry the supervisor gave him the telephone number. Which he rang.
‘Could I speak to Miss Doris Arkwright, please?’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong number.’
‘That
is
114 Worcester Road?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you haven’t got a Miss or a Mrs Arkwright there?’
‘We’ve got a butcher’s shop ’ere, mate.’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry to have troubled you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I just don’t believe it!’ said Morse quietly.
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
Thursday, January 2nd: p.m.
Even in civilized mankind, faint traces of a monogamic instinct can sometimes be perceived.
(BERTRAND RUSSELL)
H ELEN S MITH ’ S HUSBAND , John, had told her he would be back at about one o’clock, and Helen
had the ingredients for a mushroom omelette all ready. Nothing for herself, though. She would have found it very difficult to swallow anything that lunchtime, for she was sick with worry.
The headlines on ‘The World at One’ had just finished when she heard the crunch of the BMW’s
‘Forget it!’
‘You know the champagne bottles? Well, there are only
three
of them in the crate. They must have taken one away with them – it’s not here.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t quite finish it.’
‘It’s not very easy to carry a half-full bottle of bubbly around.’
‘No. You can’t get the cork back in, can you?’
She smiled, feeling very much happier now, and found herself looking at Morse and wondering if he had a wife or a series of women-friends or whether he just wasn’t interested: it was
difficult to tell. She was conscious, too, that his mind hadn’t seemed to be on her at all for the last few minutes. And indeed this was true.
‘You feeling better?’ she heard him say; but he appeared no longer to have any interest in her well-being, and he said no more as she turned and left him in the bedroom.
A few minutes later he poked his head round the door of Annexe 1 and found Lewis on his hands and knees beside the dressing table.
‘Found anything?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir.’
Back in the temporary Operations Room, Morse rang the pathology lab and found the police surgeon there.
‘Could it have been a bottle, Max?’
‘Perhaps,’ admitted that morose man. ‘But if it was it didn’t break.’
‘You mean even you would have found a few lumps of glass sticking in the fellow’s face?’
‘Even me!’
‘Do you think with a blow like that a bottle
would
have smashed?’
‘
If
it was a bottle, you mean?’
‘Yes,
if
it was a bottle.’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Well, bloody guess, then!’
‘Depends on the bottle.’
‘A champagne bottle?’
‘Many a day since I saw one, Morse!’
‘Do you think whoever murdered Ballard was left-handed or right-handed?’
‘If he was a right-handed tennis player it must have been a sort of backhand shot: if he was left-handed, it must have been a sort of smash.’
‘You’re not very often as forthcoming as that!’
‘I try to help.’
‘Do you think our tennis player was right-handed or left-handed?’
‘Don’t know,’ said the surgeon.
Lewis came in a quarter of an hour later to report to his rather sour-looking superior that his exhaustive search of the Palmer suite had yielded absolutely nothing.
‘Never mind, Lewis! Let’s try the Palmer number again.’
But Morse could hear the repeated ‘Brr-brrs’ from where he sat, and sensed somehow that for the moment at least there would be no answer to the call. ‘We’re not having a
great afternoon, one way or another, are we?’ he said.
‘Plenty of time yet, sir.’
‘What about old Doris? Shall we give her a ring? We know
she’s
at home – warming her corns on the radiator, like as not.’
‘You want me to try?’
‘Yes, I do!’
But there was no Arkwright of any initial listed in the Kidderminster area at 114 Worcester Road. But there
was
a subscriber at that address; and after some reassurance from Lewis about
the nature of the inquiry the supervisor gave him the telephone number. Which he rang.
‘Could I speak to Miss Doris Arkwright, please?’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong number.’
‘That
is
114 Worcester Road?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you haven’t got a Miss or a Mrs Arkwright there?’
‘We’ve got a butcher’s shop ’ere, mate.’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry to have troubled you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I just don’t believe it!’ said Morse quietly.
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
Thursday, January 2nd: p.m.
Even in civilized mankind, faint traces of a monogamic instinct can sometimes be perceived.
(BERTRAND RUSSELL)
H ELEN S MITH ’ S HUSBAND , John, had told her he would be back at about one o’clock, and Helen
had the ingredients for a mushroom omelette all ready. Nothing for herself, though. She would have found it very difficult to swallow anything that lunchtime, for she was sick with worry.
The headlines on ‘The World at One’ had just finished when she heard the crunch of the BMW’s
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